Apache Shadow

by Jason Manning

  "What is it? What's the matter?"

  "Something's wrong in the village. I'm going to go take a look."

  "Is that wise?"

  Barlow didn't answer. Some made a habit of steering well clear of anything that looked like trouble. But in the event it came his way, he wanted to know more about it.

  "Stay here," he told Howard. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

  He climbed into the saddle, and was about to turn his horse in the direction of the smoke when he noticed that Howard was heading for his own mount.

  "What are you doing, General?"

  "First rule of combat, Mr. Barlow," said Howard gruffly. "Never divide your forces in the face of an enemy of unknown strength and disposition. I'm coming with you."

  Barlow grimaced, but didn't waste time with an argument. "Suit yourself," he said.

  Towing the packhorse, they headed east, where now even more smoke was rising in an ominous black plume from Santa Domingo.

  Chapter 14

  Barlow had concluded that Santo Domingo was being raided, and as they drew closer and heard an occasional gunshot, this seemed to be confirmed. The question was, who were the raiders? Apaches? Bandoleros? Dismounting on the backside of a low hillock, he and Howard crept to the rim and peered over. What they saw shocked them both. The raiders wore the uniforms of Mexican dragoons. It was a very distinctive uniform—the short green tunics and the brass helmets gleaming in the bright morning sun and adorned with black horsehair plumes were unique to the dragoons. There could be no mistake. Nor could Barlow and Howard mistake what they were doing to the inhabitants of the village. Santo Domingo was in chaos. The dragoons were roaming through the adobes, some on horseback, others afoot, kicking in doors, entering the homes, and dragging the people out into the street. The villagers were being herded together, and if any tried to run they were pursued and cut down by saber or pistol shot. Men, women, and children—it didn't matter to the dragoons.

  "Good God," breathed Howard. "What are they doing? Barlow, why is this happening?"

  Barlow felt sick to his stomach. "I don't know."

  "We must do something," said the general.

  Barlow calculated that there were at least twenty dragoons in the village. "Nothing we can do," he muttered.

  Mesmerized by the horror of the scene, he belatedly realized that the general was no longer beside him. He rolled over on his side and looked back down the slope of the hillock—to see Howard once more in the saddle.

  "Hey!" he shouted. "What the hell are you doing?"

  "I will not just sit by and watch that . . . that butchery."

  He kicked his horse up the slope and galloped right past Barlow's position, so close that Barlow had to roll out of the way of the animal's hooves. He knew that Howard wasn't trying to run him over, but rather wanted to throw him off balance long enough to ride clear; the general figured that, given half a chance, Barlow would try to stop him.

  Cursing, Barlow half ran, half slid down the slope to his own horse, leaped into the saddle, and set off after Howard. The general had already been spotted, and a pair of dragoons were riding out to meet him. Barlow got to him just as they did. One had a pistol aimed at Howard. The other carried a lance, and he looked like he was inclined to run the general through. Barlow inserted himself between the lancer and Howard and grabbed the lance. The lancer shouted angrily at him and tried to jerk the weapon free. Barlow held on, and laid a hand on the pistol at his side, noticing out of the corner of his eye that the second dragoon was swinging the pistol in his direction.

  "No," said Barlow, firmly. "This man is a general in the United States Army. He is here at the invitation of Emperor Maximilian."

  In this place, at this time, it seemed an outlandish claim, and Barlow didn't expect the dragoons to believe him—especially since Howard was clad in trail-worn civilian clothes. He could only hope that his proclamation would give the two dragoons pause.

  Howard caught on. "I am General Oliver Howard," he said, with all the dignity he could muster, "and I demand to see your commanding officer. At once!"

  The dragoons exchanged glances. A third horseman approached from the village. This one was clearly an officer.

  "What is going on?" he asked, and his gaze swung from the dragoons to Howard to Barlow. "Who are you?"

  "Joshua Barlow. This is General Howard, of the United States Army."

  The scowl on the officer's face disappeared in an instant, replaced by a broad, affable grin. "General Howard! Of course. I am Captain Emilio Cordova, at your service, sir. Welcome to Mexico."

  "Captain, what is the meaning of this?" Howard gestured toward the village. "What in God's name is going on here? How can you stand by and allow your men to . . . to commit such outrages?"

  Cordova shrugged. He looked sheepish. "I have my orders, General."

  "Orders? From whom?"

  Cordova pointed, and for the first time Barlow noticed a man sitting in the striped shade of a ramada at the near edge of the village, adjacent to the first adobe. He wore a blue uniform adorned with more braid than Barlow had ever seen on one officer. The way he sat there, arrogant, insouciant, idly watching the tumult and violence in the street, rubbed Barlow the wrong way.

  "Colonel Villiers," said Cordova—and Barlow thought he heard the faintest hint of contempt in the Mexican officer's voice. "He is convinced that every village in this part of the country harbors a Juárista. Pardon me, General—a partisan of the rebel Benito Juárez."

  "Since when do you take your orders from a French colonel, Captain?" asked Barlow.

  "Since France saw fit to install His Highness, the Emperor Maximilian, upon his throne."

  "This must stop," said Howard. He was infuriated, red-faced and trembling with pent-up rage, and Barlow was afraid he would do something reckless and get them both killed. "I'll have a word with your French colonel." He spurred his horse forward. Captain Cordova moved his mount out of the way, and Barlow got the distinct impression the Mexican officer was relishing the confrontation that was about to occur.

  Howard wasted no time in urging his horse forward, seemingly oblivious to the Mexican dragoons who had been on the verge of killing him only moments before, and who still watched him with dark, unfriendly eyes. Barlow and Cordova followed, and the dragoons brought up the rear. Howard rode right up to the ramada and placed himself and his horse squarely in front of the French colonel. Villiers looked up at him with hooded eyes.

  "You are blocking my view," he said.

  "If you are in charge here, I demand that you stop this at once."

  Unruffled, Villiers glanced at Cordova. "Who is this man?"

  "He claims to be General Oliver Howard, Colonel," said Cordova, "the man we were sent here to meet."

  "I see." Villiers turned his attention back to Howard. He did not bother to stand. "I am here as an observer, General. Captain Cordova is in command."

  Cordova's expression darkened. "Since that is so," he said curtly, "I will do as you ask, General."

  Villiers shot him a hard look.

  At that instant, a dragoon emerged from a nearby adobe, roughly dragging a boy of about twelve along with him. A woman followed, begging the soldier to release her son. The dragoon seemed not to hear, and the woman lunged at him. With a curse, the dragoon savagely threw the boy to the ground and twisted around. The woman lost her grip on him and fell at his feet, and the dragoon took the opportunity to kick her as hard as he could. Seeing this, the boy leaped to his feet and hurled himself at the soldier with such fury that the man staggered. Recovering quickly, the dragoon knocked the boy down. Cursing louder now, he drew his saber, clearly intent on running the boy through.

  He didn't get the chance. Barlow was already on the move. He gave no thought to the risks involved as he kicked his horse forward and guided the responsive animal straight into the dragoon. The soldier fell sideways, dropping the saber and scrambling to avoid being trampled by the snorting, wild-eyed horse. As Barlow swung out of the sa
ddle, the boy scrambled to his feet again and ran to his mother's side. She lay curled up in a ball, clutching at her midsection. Barlow started toward them, then whirled as Howard shouted a warning. A mounted dragoon was galloping up Santo Domingo's street, saber raised, heading straight for Barlow. The latter didn't have time to draw his pistol—instinctively he made a desperate dive, right across the path of the oncoming horse and forced the dragoon to swing the saber across his body. Missing his mark, the dragoon checked his horse. Barlow got to his feet—just in time to be struck by the first dragoon, who barreled right into him and drove him backward. Falling, Barlow hit the back of his head so hard that he nearly passed out. He threw the dragoon off and rolled away. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the mounted dragoon was turning his horse, preparing to make another charge. This time, though, Barlow had a few precious seconds to spare—and his hand dropped to the pistol at his side.

  Cordova's voice pierced the ringing in Barlow's ears, as the captain shouted a curt order that brought the mounted dragoon up short. The other one, though, didn't seem to hear. Or if he did, he didn't care whether he disobeyed his commanding officer or not. His blood was up, and with a snarl of rage, he got up and started toward Barlow again. Barlow figured only one thing would stop him—he drew the pistol and aimed it at the man's head. The dragoon stopped, the barrel of the Colt only inches away.

  Everything seemed to come to a complete halt. Barlow didn't take his eyes off the dragoon in front of him, but he realized that the commotion in the street had all but ceased. The other soldiers had stopped what they were doing; their attention was fastened on the confrontation between their compadre and the gringo.

  "Captain Cordova," said Barlow, pleased that his voice was quite calm and steady, "tell your man to stand down. I don't want to have to kill him."

  Cordova rode forward, putting his horse between Barlow and the dragoon. He snapped a curt order to the latter and then turned his attention to Barlow. "Please lower your weapon, senor. There has been enough killing today."

  Barlow complied, and Cordova issued more orders to the dragoons. Scanning the street, it occurred to Barlow that his altercation with the Mexican soldiers had served as a diversion, capturing the attention of Cordova's men long enough for the people of the village to make themselves scarce. But that hadn't happened soon enough for the several campesinos who lay dead in the dust of the street. He turned away from the sight, and helped to her feet the woman who had been trying to save her son from the dragoon. She was young and pretty, though her face was pale and smeared with dirt and drawn taut with pain.

  "Are you badly hurt?" he asked.

  She shook her head, giving him a wan smile of gratitude.

  Cordova rode up. "My apologies, senora. My man says that your son told him his father—your husband—is a Juárista. I am not trying to make excuses for his behavior. But he says that is why he acted the way he did."

  She just looked at the captain, with that impassive, unreadable expression that all campesinos—at least those who wanted to stay alive—learned early on to produce on demand.

  "Is it true, senora? About your husband?"

  "I have not seen my husband in years," she said, with an edge of defiance in her voice. "I do not know what he is doing. I do not even know if he is alive or dead."

  Cordova touched the visor of his helmet. "Again, my apologies." He turned his horse away.

  Barlow went to retrieve his own horse, which was standing nearby, and led it back to the ramada, where General Howard, still under the watchful eye of the two dragoons, was waiting for him. Cordova was there, as well, and Villiers hadn't moved.

  "If these are the tactics you employ," Howard was saying to the Frenchman, "then it's small wonder that you are losing the war against the men you call rebels."

  "Did not your side do the same thing in your own civil war?" asked Villiers.

  Howard grimaced. "If you are referring to General Sherman's March to the Sea, I was there, sir, and I can assure you, the rape and murder of civilians was not condoned."

  "What about confiscation?"

  "What about it?"

  "You know as well as I, General, that one of the most effective ways to put down a rebellion is to deny the rebels the support of the people. Without that support, the rebels cannot survive. It is from the people that they get their provisions. It is the people who hide them from the authorities. It is the people who spy for them. The people are the roots of the vine, and if you tear up the roots, the vine withers and dies. This is what I have tried to teach Captain Cordova. And it is a lesson I learned from studying the American Civil War. Your war, General."

  "Your men killed innocent people in cold blood."

  "They killed people, yes. But how do you know they were innocent?"

  "How do you know they weren't?"

  Villiers shrugged. "If so, it is too bad. In war, innocent people sometimes lose their lives. Especially in a war in which the enemy is a coward, disguising himself as one of the innocents until your back is turned—and then he drives a dagger into your heart."

  Barlow could tell that Howard was on the verge of losing control, so he stepped forward. "General, remember why we're here. What's done is done."

  Howard glared at him. "So I should just forget what I've seen here today? Impossible. I am a soldier, sir, and what I have seen is a stain upon the honor of all soldiers everywhere."

  Barlow shook his head. He didn't see any point in remarking on his own experiences where soldiers doing dishonorable things was concerned.

  "Please, gentlemen," said Cordova, "let's put this behind us, shall we? General, we are here to provide you with safe escort to your destination. I think the sooner we are on our way, the better."

  "No," snapped Howard, truculently. "I will not go anywhere with this . . . this man." He made a dismissive gesture in the direction of Villiers.

  Villiers gave a short, derisive laugh. "That's fine with me," he said. "I did not travel halfway around the world to safeguard some old fool who thinks he can simply walk into the stronghold of the Apaches and come back alive. No. There is a war to be fought. Captain, collect your men. We have done enough here."

  "I should say so," muttered Howard.

  As Cordova rode off down the street to round up the dragoons, Howard dismounted and turned to face Barlow.

  "We will stay here until I'm sure they're not coming back," said the general.

  "Whatever you say."

  "You were right, Mr. Barlow. I should have listened to you. Now I will rely on you alone to get me to Cochise."

  Barlow didn't say anything. The likelihood of getting Howard to the Sierra Madre—much less getting him out again—appeared to be increasingly remote.

  Chapter 15

  After Villiers and the dragoons had gone, Barlow and Howard lingered for a couple of hours in Santo Domingo. They sat in the striped shade of the ramada, where the French colonel had earlier been taking his ease. At first they'd demonstrated a desire to help the campesinos care for their dead, but the people of Santo Domingo had quietly but firmly declined their assistance. So now all they could do was sit and watch. Listening to the wail of women grieving over the fallen innocents, Howard shook his head, his anger and outrage still at the boiling point.

  "That Napoléon III has as much gall as his famous predecessor," growled the general, "but not even Bonaparte would be so arrogant as to think he could simply install a man like Maximilian on a throne and force the people of this country to bend themselves to his will. And for this"—he made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the tragedy that had recently visited the village—"the French must be made to answer."

  "If it's any consolation," said Barlow, "the Mexicans have been doing this to each other since the days of Santa Anna."

  Howard glared at him. "I didn't think you would take up for the likes of that Villiers fellow."

  "Not taking up for him. But I've heard all about what's been going on down here from the vaqueros who w
ork for me. There probably isn't a family down here that hasn't suffered in some way similar to what we've just witnessed at some point in the past thirty years."

  As though to drive home his point, the young woman and the boy who had been targeted by the dragoons emerged from their adobe at that moment and brought Barlow and Howard a plate of tortillas, another of beans, and a clay jug of water.

  "I can't eat," said Howard. "I have no appetite. But thank them for me, will you?"

  Barlow thanked them. He was starving. That always seemed to happen to him after a brush with death. The woman and her son lingered, watching as he rolled up a tortilla, dipped the end of it into the beans, and began to eat.

  "It is I who should thank you," said the young woman. "You saved my son's life."

  "De nada," said Barlow. He glanced, curious, at the boy. "What is your name?"

  "Manuel."

  "Manuel, why did you tell the soldier about your father being a Juárista? Didn't you realize what might happen to you?"

  "I do not care what happens to me," said Manuel, vehemently. "I hate the French. And I spit on the soldiers who do their bidding."

  "Manuel," said the woman, her tone one of gentle scolding.

  "You're very brave," observed Barlow. "But next time, think of the tears your mother would cry if anything happened to you."

  Manuel looked at his mother, suddenly crestfallen, and for a moment Barlow thought the boy would begin to weep.

  "I am sorry, Mama," he said.

  She bent down and kissed the top of his head. "Wait for me inside, Manuel," she said, with a voice full of infinite love and forgiveness.

  He ran into the adobe. She turned and smiled at Barlow. "Thank you again, senor. Manuel is a good boy. But he is headstrong, and proud. His father was . . . is the same way."